


suddenly becoming one you have never read

by susiecarter



Category: DC Extended Universe, Suicide Squad (2016)
Genre: Amnesia, Established Relationship, Extra Treat, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Miscommunication, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:53:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22746601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiecarter/pseuds/susiecarter
Summary: No. No fucking way."Everybody knows about us," GQ is saying, like it isn't the weirdest fucking thing Croc's ever heard."Bullshit," Croc says.
Relationships: GQ Edwards/Waylon Jones
Comments: 35
Kudos: 221
Collections: Chocolate Box - Round 5





	suddenly becoming one you have never read

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hecate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hecate/gifts).



> SORRY THIS IS LATE, but in the end I just could not resist that amnesia prompt, help. :D Happy Chocolate Box! ♥
> 
> Title from the poem "[Forgetfulness](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/37695/forgetfulness)", by Billy Collins.

It's dark in here. But cold, too. Water—but it's too shallow to hide in.

Best he's got, though. He drags himself deeper, grits his teeth against the pain. He's got to get away. He's got to get somewhere they won't find him.

Because they're after him. He knows they are. Doesn't know who, doesn't know why. But he can hear them out there. Coming closer, closer: stomping around out there, shouting. Looking for him.

Looking for him, and he doesn't want to get found.

Except he's pretty sure he left one hell of a blood trail behind him. Not much he can do about it, though. Just keep crawling, get further in than they want to go, hope they pass him by.

He digs an elbow into the flooded gravel under him, drags himself another foot. Hurts worse, sharper, blood dripping down over the backs of his bunched knuckles where he's curled over his hand. He can smell it.

But they probably can't. Not from out there, anyway.

Humans.

His lip curls a little, draws up off his teeth. They're nothing.

But enough of 'em at once, when he's cut up already? Yeah, they could fuck him up some.

So he makes himself crawl another foot. Another. And then—a break, that's all—he lets himself drop to his side, curl around the place he's sliced open, so nobody can get to it but him.

Fuck, that does hurt.

He lets his eyes close. He breathes.

A clang, somewhere behind him. Somebody shouting: "No, no, it's fine, I got this side. I got this side, go on."

A scrape of boots on stone. A splash. And then the giant fucking pipe or whatever that he's in catches the same voice, lower, a mutter.

"Wet, dark, enclosed. Check, check, check." A pause. More motion—more splashing. "Shit, that's a lot of blood."

More scraping. Another clang, and this one's louder, travels up the pipe to where he's crouched in it, makes him wince.

Fuck. This guy's almost got him.

He twists a little. Not enough to make a noise against the water, the spill of gravel. Just enough to crack an eye—not wide, not so the shine will catch this guy's eye.

Blurry shadow, blocking the distant end of the pipe.

"Croc? Croc! You in here, man?"

Matter of time, that's all. So he lets himself growl: hoarse rumble, filling up the whole pipe like there's five of him in here. Should freak this motherfucker out, at least—

A laugh, half a breath. "Yeah, okay, I thought so."

He blinks.

Next—well. He figured once the guy was in here, that would be it. The guy would pull out whatever it was he had and use it. Cattle prod; double the fun with water on the ground. Harpoon. Chains, or a net, or a tazer.

But instead, all he hears is more scraping. Rustling. Smaller splashes, drips. The guy moving, in his vision. Dropping low.

Crawling. Crawling _in here_.

What the fuck.

"Hey," the guy says, kind of—soft. "Hey, man, it's okay. I got you. All right?"

As if he doesn't know that. As if that's not the fucking problem—

He growls louder, harsher.

The guy slows down. But he doesn't stop. "Yeah, I know," he says quietly, as if there had been words in that noise somewhere. "I saw that mess out there. Got you pretty good, huh? But you're going to be fine, dude. You're a badass. Just hang on a minute. Almost—fuck, motherfucker, I am going to get tetanus crawling around in here. You sure don't make this shit easy."

Not good words. Or at least they wouldn't be normally. But the guy doesn't sound mad. He sounds—something else.

And he's still crawling, even though he clearly fucking knows what's waiting for him.

Fucking weirdo.

The guy gets close enough to reach out with both hands. The touch makes him flinch—but the guy doesn't balk, doesn't panic. Doesn't grab a gun and shoot him in the head.

"Hey," the guy says again. "Hey, Croc—"

"Fuck you talking to?" he grits out.

"—you're going to be fine, okay? We just got to get you out of here—"

"Fuck _off_."

"Okay, so I understand the temptation to say it," the guy allows, "but you got to know I can't do that. I am not leaving you to bleed out in some fucking drainpipe. Okay?"

"Yeah? Why the fuck's that?"

And that's the thing that finally makes the guy frown down at him. "Croc, man, come on."

"Fuck you. Stop—" and fuck, he's the one who's got to stop, chest tight, pain blazing through it, tensed up too hard. "—stop fucking around. Just do it."

"What? Man, you aren't making any sense. You hit your head, too?"

"Who _are_ you?" he spits.

Doesn't like saying it, doesn't like letting on he doesn't know; but, seriously, what the fuck.

The guy's eyebrows go up, and then down. He laughs a little, through his nose. Shakes his head. "Look, you're pissed at me for coming in to drag your ass out of here, fine. But now really isn't the time for your weird shitty sense of humor, dude."

The guy touches him again. And he flinches, bares his teeth—snaps outright at the closer set of fingers. Because what the fuck is this guy's problem? How the fuck can he not tell he's an inch from a bloody fucking mess of a death? Jesus.

That makes the guy frown harder. "Croc," he says slowly. "Croc—wait. Are you—you don't know me? Are you serious?"

Croc. Is that his name?

Not that it matters. He's sick and fucking tired of this bullshit. And even like this, belly ripped open, bleeding, he's still more than strong enough to handle one guy.

He snarls, twists in the water and catches the guy around the throat, shoves him back hard into the curving side of the pipe. Holds him there, one hand, and presses in real close, teeth still showing, rumble deep in his chest.

The guy's breath catches. He's surprised, which, yeah. But the thing is—

The thing is, that's his pulse under Croc's thumb. Soft human skin, easy to bruise, easy to break. But Croc can feel that pulse, can hear it. It's there. High, a little. But not pounding, racing. No panic.

His eyes are wide. He's holding carefully still under Croc's hand. But under that, down deep—he's not afraid. Like even now he knows there's something wrong, he still can't believe it. His body still doesn't believe it.

"Oh, shit," the guy says. "Shit, Croc, look at you—"

Like it's the blood that's his problem here, and not Croc with a grip on his throat.

Croc growls at him harder. And then has to stop, pant a little. Cold in here. But the blood, where it's spilling out over his scales—that's warm. Almost feels nice.

"— _got_ to let me get you out of here, man. Please. Please—"

Croc snarls again, breathless.

"I know," the guy says, fast. "I know you don't want to. But you _have_ to. There's—there's a—fuck, this probably isn't the best time to get into it. But we can fix you up. We can help you. And I couldn't leave you here even if I wanted to, okay? Which I don't. But they won't let you get away." His throat works under Croc's hand. "They'd kill you first. They'd—I mean, if they knew you had fucking _amnesia_ , then at least you couldn't give away intel, but—"

It's too much. Too many words. Croc's head hurts. He's still bleeding, more and more. Too much.

"Please," the guy says again, wretched, ragged. "Please, Croc. Let me. I know you have no reason to, if you can't remember, but I—please."

Croc digs his teeth into the inside of his cheek.

No choice. Not really. There's more of them out there—whoever this guy was shouting to, before. Footsteps still scraping around, even now. Other voices, distant. Radios crackling.

Plenty of them. Only one of Croc. Surrounded, cornered. Bleeding already.

Even if he told this guy no, they'd still get him in the end.

No choice.

But maybe it's still a little bit about this guy. Him, his wide anxious eyes, his steady heart. That soft defenseless body under Croc's hands, relaxed, unafraid. Like maybe somehow everything really is going to be okay.

So, yeah, they take him.

The guy's got to help him drag himself out of the pipe. He can't do it alone.

He goes away, for part of it. Comes back, a couple times. Faces, guns. Sky. Something big, closed in, noisy—chopper. He doesn't like that one; doesn't mind going away again, not that time.

The next time, he's somewhere else. Clean, white. Locked down: concrete, cement, big thick metal doors.

And the guy.

Croc blinks once, twice. "You again?"

The guy startles, looks down at him—jerks up out of his seat, comes over to the edge of the bed Croc's lying on. Within reach of Croc's hands, Croc's teeth, but he doesn't seem to be thinking about that any.

What a dumbass he is, Croc thinks.

"Croc! Jesus, man, you scared the shit out of me," he says, and then he just sets his fucking hand right over the thickest bandages, right where Croc's hurt the most.

Croc's showing teeth, tensing up, without even thinking about it. If the guy wanted to gut him—

But the guy's hand is open. Open, spread wide. Cautious. Gentle.

"The defenses on that place really fucked you up," he adds, quiet, looking down at his hand.

"Yeah," Croc says, which is stupid. It's just something about the look on the guy's face. Makes it hard not to say something. Remind him that whatever got Croc, it wasn't enough—that he's still right the fuck here.

Stupid. But it works: the guy looks up, meets Croc's eyes, and he's kind of almost smiling.

"Yeah," he agrees.

"The fuck you doing in here?" Croc says.

The guy blinks. "What?"

Croc jerks his chin at the doors. Big metal ones like that—this isn't just anywhere. The guy said they could help him, fix him up. Whoever runs this place, they know what he is, and they're ready for it. Prison, lab, some other kind of hellhole. But whatever it is, they don't just let anybody walk in and out of it.

"Those doors ain't there to keep you in, bro," he says aloud.

"Oh—well, no," the guy allows. "But it's not like anybody's trying to keep me out, man. Not when it's you. They know better."

He says it easily. Not thinking about it.

And then he looks at Croc, and something passes over his face. Like he forgot Croc forgot, for a second.

"Right," he says. "They said you, uh. You probably still wouldn't remember." He stops, and sighs, and rubs his free hand over his face.

He looks tired.

"I'm—well. Everybody calls me GQ. GQ Edwards. And you and me, we, uh. We, um." He stops again, and laughs a little. "We're—we have this—we—shit." He bites his lip. "Man, it's been so long since we had to talk about it. I forgot how weird it was going to be to say it. To have to, when you—when it's you."

No. No fucking way.

"Everybody knows about us," GQ is saying, like it isn't the weirdest fucking thing Croc's ever heard.

"Bullshit," Croc says.

Some guy—some guy who looks like _that_ , like the way humans like for people to look—and he thinks Croc'll believe that? Like hell.

GQ's looking at him, wide eyes, startled mouth. "I mean, I hate to break it to you, man," he says uncertainly, "but we are not exactly the two most subtle people on the planet, if you get my drift."

"Bullshit," Croc grits out again. "You and me—bullshit."

He clamps his mouth shut, turns his face away. Wishes this fucking weirdo would get his warm fucking hand off him. Whatever the fuck this guy is getting out of fucking with him like this, it doesn't mean Croc's got to play along. Fuck him.

"Yeah," GQ says, soft, after a second, and doesn't move. "Yeah, I guess it looks that way to you, huh? You probably weren't figuring you'd landed yourself some—half-wrapped lunch in a SEAL uniform."

Croc twists back around to stare at him.

What the hell is this guy's _problem_? Jesus, he really is a dumbass.

"You serious?" he bites out.

"What?" GQ says, blinking.

"You," Croc repeats. "And me."

And that makes something else happen to GQ's face, something Croc's not sure he has a word for. "Croc," he says slowly.

Croc bares his teeth, testing. "Humans don't like me," he says.

"Yeah, well, I do," GQ says, sharp. "Look, you've—you've got a team now, okay? Sort of. It's small and it's fucked up, but it's there. You've got people. It isn't just me."

Croc swallows. "Bullshit."

But it comes out quieter this time. Shouldn't, but it does.

He likes himself. But nobody else does. He's used to it. He doesn't waste time crying about it. Humans are soft and squalling and pointless, and the only useful thing about them is they taste pretty okay. They all look at Croc the same way, or at least they always have before. And they're basically all he's got to work with, so there he is. He's learned to live with it, mostly.

Except now there's some guy standing here looking at him a different way, touching him without hurting him. Not afraid at all.

Croc narrows his eyes. He feels kind of okay—didn't kill him to tense up under GQ's hand earlier, anyway. So he moves: lunges up off the bed, faster than GQ can possibly match. Shoves GQ backwards, practically fucking carries him, all the way over to the wall, and pushes him up it so his feet aren't touching the floor anymore. Leans in close, crowding him there.

And GQ lets him.

Gasps a little, as they move; makes a sound in his throat, when they hit the wall together. Reaches up and wraps his hands around Croc's wrist, his forearm. But that's it.

He doesn't kick, he doesn't bite, he doesn't try to dig his nails in. He doesn't scream, even though there's got to be twenty guys right outside that door with really big guns who'd bust in here in a second if he did.

He just lets it happen. Willing. Staring at Croc, with those wide pale eyes. Taking it.

Croc feels a shiver of—something, thinking that.

And yeah, okay. It's kind of nice. Maybe he'd have gone for it, if he'd thought GQ would let him.

GQ's looking at him, eyes flicking back and forth. And then he smiles, just a little.

"Yeah," he says, soft. "Yeah, that's right. There you are."

Croc makes a noise. Doesn't even know what he means it as; half puzzled, half something else.

GQ reaches up and touches his face. Rubs a little at the scales, along the edges where they get itchy sometimes. Relaxes in Croc's grip, too, like he isn't worried Croc might let him slide down the wall, might drop him.

"Still don't remember," Croc hears himself say.

"That's okay, man," GQ says, easy. "We'll fix it."

"Maybe," Croc mutters.

He means it. Wishes he didn't, but—he still has no idea what the fuck even did this to him. GQ didn't make it sound like anybody here had figured it out yet, either. Maybe they'll fix it, yeah. Or maybe he's stuck like this. Maybe he'll never get it back, whatever it was. Whoever he was, that he pulled off this thing with him and GQ.

"Hey," GQ says, and touches Croc's cheek, his mouth. "If we figure it out, we figure it out. If we don't—" He shrugs. "Then I guess we start from the top. I don't care how long it takes to make you into me again, dude. I am not letting you get away if I can help it. Okay?"

"Won't be a problem," Croc admits.

And GQ grins at him, wide, bright, beaming, and kisses him. Deep, easy. Unhesitating.

And yeah, okay, Croc kind of hopes he does remember soon after all. Because if somebody took even a second of this away from him, then he wants it the fuck back. Yesterday.

"GQ," he says, against GQ's mouth. Just testing it, this time. Tasting it.

"That's me," GQ murmurs, and kisses him again.


End file.
